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Fucking Red Sox! This is perhaps the most tragically underattended show I've ever been to, so people can watch grown men play with balls and sticks? Please.
Opening up, for me and about half a dozen of their friends, are Francis Kim Band. Initially, I like them. They have a kind of dated, soft-rock sound that's fun for the first song or two, and their lead singer is excellent. He's a tiny little guy, (they have a song called "5-foot-4") but he's got a huge voice, and he uses it really well. Their drummer is also strikingly good; just always that little bit more complicated than he needs to be. I like that. There is also good harmony. But after a few songs the safe, polished, radio-friendly sound starts to get me down. Genuine talent, but not my thing.
Fortunately, I'm here to see Starr Faithfull, and they give me the ass-kicking I came here for. Those ridiculous baseball players are still trying to suck all the life out of the room--at one point there are three of us in the audience--and the band could let this get to them, but they go all out. I make a concerted effort to pay attention to the rhythm section this time, and they're really good. The bassist plays a five-string and sings really beautiful harmonies. The drummer plays a fairly large kit, guides the band ably through some fairly interesting changeups, and also sings harmony on a couple of songs. But really, it's all about Jodee. First, the girl can sing. She's got a great voice with a clear, thick tone, and she can growl and scream like Joan Jett's dirty little sister. And her guitar solos! Imagine Eddie Van Halen's raw skill, with better tone and bends and musical ideas worth spending that skill on. She introduces the bluesy romp "3 Sore Thumbs" by saying, "We're gonna blow off a little steam now," and I wonder that they have any steam left.
Truly a tough act to follow. As it turns out, Tristan da Cunha are my new favorite band. They make me think of Devo faithfully covering the double-trio lineup of King Crimson, and that's just the first song. And they're a three-piece. Fuck math rock; this is n-dimensional topology rock. I count 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8, IN ONE SONG. And, oh yeah, they're really good, too. They don't just hang on for these wild rides, they sell them. The guitarist has Sonic Youth, Shellac, and (above all) The Boredoms under his belt, and can sing a delicate high harmony at need. The bassist does most of the singing, and he's really good, with a strong voice and a dramatic style that really connects with the (scant) audience. The drummer is a finely crafted machine. And just when I think the bag of tricks must surely be empty, the guitarist and drummer switch places for the last song, and damned if they're not wild and weird and excellent on those instruments too.
Where can this evening possibly go from here? All to hell, as it turns out. I panic when I see the vibraphone come out, but I try to keep an open mind. Nope. It's a wimpy jam band. Ridiculous, pointless vibe solos; minimal, thoroughly boring drumming; aimless, noodling guitar solos; and Audrey Ryan's shrill voice to add an actively bad element to the painfully bland. I make it through my regulation Three Songs, barely, and bolt. (Oh, and the damned Red Sox won.)
